Aprons
by SakuraGirl25
Summary: Bruce hates Clark's aprons.


**Heyoooo! I've had this little shot floating around in my computer for some time. So I decided to publish it.**

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT own Batman or Superman they are the property of DC comics.**

**Warnings: Slash, fluff, and sexual situations.

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**Aprons**

As soon as Bruce awakened, he realized that something was amiss. The super strong arms that usually draped him in an all-encompassing embrace when he wakened were absent. He quirked an eyebrow, wiping sleep-bleary eyes, and rolled to his back. With a frown, he sat up in the bed that was not his, looking around at the bedroom that was definitely not his, and got to his feet. Clark probably had an emergency to handle.

He picked his black silk drawstring pants (one of his many personal articles that somehow appeared in Clark's apartment) from the floor and stepped into them. He needed coffee. Before exiting the room, he took the time to scowl over the pastoral décor. It would seem that you could take the boy off the farm but you couldn't take the farm out of the boy. Halfway down the hall the scent of pancakes wafted to him.

"Good morning sleeping beauty," Clark greeted, throwing a brilliant smile his way when he entered the kitchen.

Bruce merely grunted and shuffled to the black coffeemaker, the corners of his lips quirking slightly when he saw the black 'Batman' mug sitting next to the percolator. Damn Clark and his sense of humor. As he prepared a cup of coffee to his liking Clark hummed, a tune that he did not recognize at first. He watched his lover with slightly narrowed eyes as he continued to hum. Bruce loved Clark, he truly did, but there was one thing that irked him to no end about his partner. Everyday, 365 days a year, no vacations the man would rise and shine, like a supernova. An eyebrow hardly rose when he realized what the other was so enthusiastically humming. "Are you humming _Living la Vida Loca_?"

Clark's gave him a sheepish smile. "It was playing in FoodMart." He used the spatula to lift a fluffy pancake off the griddle and added it to the batch on the plate.

Bruce gave the taller man a look that said he really didn't believe him and decided to keep his place next to the refrigerator. An image of Clark wearing skin-tight leather pants as he pranced around the kitchen rose into his mind. He was growing hard just thinking of how good his lover's ass would look in a pair of black leather pants. _Note to self: buy Clark a pair of leather pants. _

He briefly studied his lover, enjoying the warmth that always seemed to enshroud the Kryptonian like an invisible garment. He never thought that he would ever meet a person that could bring warmth to his cold world. His thoughts nearly ceased when Clark looked at him with an emotion shining in those sky blue eyes that left him helpless. It was ridiculous that a single look from this man could leave him, Batman, trying to recollect his thoughts. It was something he would never tell his lover. He gave a small quirk of his lips, taking the opportunity to draw closer and place a hand on the nape of his lover's neck. The smile Clark gave him, made him think that he already new the effect he had on him. Goddamned investigative reporter. He withdrew his hand and headed to the dining table, grabbing a handful of that perfect ass on his way. With coffee still in hand, he took a seat at the already set table.

Clark chuckled, using super speed to flip over the trio of pancakes frying on the griddle. "We've both got work Bruce."

Bruce stared at his lover's backside, thinking of how mind-blowing it had been the last time he spread a very willing Clark over the dining table. "You could always call in sick Clark," he answered in the same lightly chiding tone.

Clark chuckled.

His thoughts stopped when his lover turned to him. What the hell? Clark was wearing an apron (another one). He'd discovered from four months of migrating between their respective homes that Clark had a very diverse collection of all things in the world: aprons. After seeing his lover in different aprons each time they ended up screwing at his apartment, he became curious. Now, he wished he had never looked in that goddamned closet. There were aprons of farm animals, vintage aprons that were made before his parents were even contemplating conception, at least four atrocities that had the words 'CHEESE!' across the front, several with supposedly humorous phrases (of which he was sure Clark thought they were a riot), and others he didn't care to catalogue. The apron he wore today was red with an overfed cow on it. Trust the world's strongest man to wear an apron with the world's most recognizable farm animal stitched across it like it was his prized pig.

"What?" Clark asked when Bruce continued to stare.

"You have on an apron," he stated the obvious.

Clark gave a long-suffering sigh. They'd had this discussion nth many times. "Yes, Bruce I know I have on an apron," he said wearily, his hands moving as blurs as he dropped the remaining pancakes on top of the rest and turned off the griddle. He placed the plate of pancakes on the table.

"Why?" He transferred several steaming hot pancakes onto his plate as Clark strode to the refrigerator for the syrup and orange juice.

Clark returned to the table carrying a bottle of molasses syrup and jug of orange juice. "Because I can't afford to overhaul my wardrobe whenever I feel like it." He placed the bottle and jug on the table and sat down.

Bruce snorted and poured himself a glass of the citrus beverage. "You're the World's Strongest Man Clark and you're wearing an apron with a cow on it."

Clark finished drowning his pancakes in syrup, poured himself a glass of orange juice, and then looked at his partner with feigned annoyance. "What have you got against aprons _and _cows?" Memories of the hostility Bruce had displayed when he first met Bessie (the Kent family's prized heifer) traversed his mind. Of course, that hostility could have stemmed from the fact that he'd stepped in one of her cow pies in his two thousand dollar shoes minutes before meeting her.

"Don't try to change the subject." He had nothing against cows; filet mignon was one of his favorite dishes.

He swallowed a mouthful of syrupy goodness before saying, "I'm not. And I'm not the only one that wears an apron. John wears an apron too."

Bruce shook his head as he swallowed. "Yes, but only when he's grilling." A tiny hint of playfulness that only Clark's eyes had seen gleamed in those ice blue eyes. Bantering over a short stack of pancakes was a good morning for Bruce.

A single raven eyebrow rose. "What's the difference?"

Bruce squashed the amusement seeking to claim his features and schooled them into one of casual interest. "Grilling is more, for lack of a better word, manly." He fought the tiny smile tugging at his lips when his lover stared at him with that 'what are you trying to get across?' look.

Bruce was enjoying this. He could tell by the slightly quivering corners of those sinfully kissable lips. "Bruce…" He stopped when a thought came to him. "Alfred wears an apron when he cooks."

He quirked an eyebrow. Clark had a decent argument, but of course it wasn't good enough. "True, but his aprons are those of simplified dignity not those that make him look like he should have a vagina." He smirked when Clark gaped at him. Clark was cute when he made that face.

"What are you trying to say? That you wish I had a v- woman's privates?" He asked a little hurt.

Bruce smirked at Clark's inability to the say the word 'vagina' and leaned over, a downright lecherous expression shading his features. "And give up that fantastic cock of yours? Not going to happen." He watched the blush rise from his lover's neck to the tips of his ears. Red did look good on his lover. Ever-observant eyes perceived the dilation of his lover's pupils and the oh so subtle flare of his nostrils. Bruce couldn't help but give a self-satisfied smirk. Clark was probably rock-hard by now, of course it didn't help that he was giving his lover that I-want-to-pound-into-the-floor look that usually gave before they ended up butt ass naked in two minutes flat.

God Bruce. He had work, he had work, he had work, and an impending deadline. He couldn't just push his lover up against the wall and- then it dawned on him. That sneaky bastard. "I'm flattered, but you're not going to hoodwink me into disposing of my aprons."

"They're asinine." He inserted the last forkful of syrup-covered pancakes into his mouth, savoring the fluffiness. Clark did make good pancakes.

"They keep me from getting dirty. How is that _asinine_?" He said pointedly, taking a swallow of orange juice.

"Because you have flour in your hair." He reached up and brushed the powdery substance from those dark locks, smirking when his lover gave him an adoring smile.

"Oh come on, just admit that you hate my aprons." He couldn't help but sound pouty when Bruce smirked at him.

"Alright, I hate them." He answered curtly, leaning back into the comfortable chair. Amusement tickled through him when the taller man looked at him as if he had just confessed that he loathed apple pie.

"All of them?" He asked.

"Every. Single. One. Down to that atrocity you're currently wearing," he answered tersely, no longer finding a point to their banter.

"But you can't hate them all-" Bruce cut him off.

"They should all be either thrown into a vat of acid or burned," He gathered up the eating utensils he'd used, stood, and strode to the sink, dropping them in with the dishes Clark dirtied while cooking. "I'm going to go take a shower."

Clark folded his powerful arms, a determined look on his face. He was going to make Bruce like at least one of his aprons and he knew just the one. A mischievous glint shimmered in those sky blue eyes as he stood from the table.

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Bruce dried off and, after completing his morning grooming ritual (shaving, applying Axe Kilo antiperspirant, and brushing his mussed hair), wrapped a towel around his waist. He grasped his toothbrush, squirted some of the chalky paste onto its bristles, and began brushing his teeth. He had a 2:30 board meeting at Wayne Tech and he'd be damned if he let Clark fly him there, not after what transpired two weeks ago. Empty airspace and a horny Superman resulted in midair activities that should be, by the laws of gravity and physics, implausible (obviously no longer impossible). Of course, he had many devices that allowed him to 'fly' but he preferred to keep his feet on solid ground, especially when doing 'IT'. He'd been uncomfortable, but it was what Clark had so badly wanted. And, he could hardly refuse the Kryptonian anything he desired (he wouldn't tell Clark that of course).

Once he finished brushing his teeth, he rinsed his mouth and walked to the door of the small (by his standards) bathroom. The best bet of getting to the meeting at least fashionably late was to call Alfred and have him fly over a private jet immediately. He stopped and lifted an eyebrow at the man filling the doorway.

Bruce noticed four things about his lover. The first thing he noticed was the impressive erection tenting the extra large apron donning his muscular torso (that got his attention). The second thing he noticed was the apron, which was white and had the words 'By The Time This Is Over You'll Want To Do More Than Kiss This Cook' in bold print (that was the truth). The third he noticed was that the apron was most definitely the sole garment the Kryptonian was wearing. The fourth thing he noticed was the expression on his lover's face. Shit.

Clark leaned against the doorframe a triumphant twinkle in his sky blue pits. "Do you like _this _apron Bruce?" He shifted, muscles flexing, tanned skin catching the sun's rays just right.

Shit! He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly at the Kryptonian. That was a loaded question and he was certain that if he gave the wrong answer any hope of fucking the gorgeous, naked Clark Kent before he left for Gotham were nil. The Batman part of him told him not to break; that this was a game that he was not going to lose. The other part of him (his libido) was horny and- Dear god he could see one of Clark's nipples. An image of him licking one of those pert nipples while one of his hands trailed downward to pump his lover's engorged shaft formed in his mind. He swallowed trying to wet his suddenly dry mouth and throat.

Clark smirked even harder.

Bruce glared at his lover, knowing that he could hear his pounding heart. He was not saying yes. No way in hell was he admitting anything because that would mean that he would lose.

Clark rolled his eyes at the billionaire's pigheadedness and entered the room, turning to close the door behind himself.

Bruce groaned inwardly when Clark turned to close the door, giving him a clear view of that divine, bare ass. The Kryptonian was definitely playing dirty. Goddamnit why did Clark have to look so frigging hot in that apron? Bruce looked his lover square in the eye when he stood inches away from him, giving him a glower. The little smirk on Clark's face annoyed him to no end, especially when he knew that the Kryptonian knew he had him by the balls.

"Come on darling just give me the right answer and…" He sent a deliberate glance to the tent in Bruce's towel.

Bruce grit his teeth. He knew what that look meant just like he knew what Clark's gifted tongue was capable of. A blowjob from Clark was a round trip to seventh heaven. Just let it go. Are you going to let an apron stop you from getting laid? _Hell no_. Bruce was an astute man and after so many months of being with someone almost as stubborn as him he'd learned to pick his battles (just like his father advised him one day after a no-win argument with Martha Wayne). He sighed. "I guess it serves a purpose," he admitted begrudgingly. He glowered at his lover who gave him a brilliant smile.

"See that didn't kill you did it?"

Bruce frowned, allowing himself to be drawn into a gentle embrace by arms whose hands could crush diamonds, and tried not to fall apart as their concealed erections were trapped between their bodies. "I hate you."

Clark grinned good-naturedly and pressed his forehead to his lover's. "You love me." Deft fingers slid to his waist, ridding him of his towel, and then retraced their path back up to pinch one of his erect nipples.

Bruce suppressed a moan and before his mind descended into the haze of desire took a moment to let his eyes lock with the man facing him. Clark was right, he did love him. He loved all seventy-six inches of this ever-smiling, pancake-loving, apron-wearing, selfless farm boy like a lunatic. "Yes, I do." He chuckled to himself and took possession of his lover's lips in a bruising kiss.

Several impassioned moments later, Bruce explored his lover's naked form, savoring Clark's moans as he worshiped every single flawless inch of his body. As he neared his destination (his lover's weeping cock), he couldn't help but think that perhaps at least one of his aprons were not meaningless. He gripped his lover's rock-hard erection. "Alright I like that apron," he stated huskily, smiling as Clark inhaled sharply. He flicked his tongue over the slit of lover's member.

Clark moaned, sparks dancing before his eyes, as shivers snaked through his form. "T-told you."

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**And that is the end of this little oneshot. I hope you all like it and if you do please Read & Review. **

**Ciao ^_*  
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